


He's looking at you... again.

by Links



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Internalized Homophobia, John is stubborn (and a bit not good), M/M, Pining Sherlock, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2019-03-15 13:50:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 14,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13614678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Links/pseuds/Links
Summary: Sherlock sighed. He knew he has been completely obvious, that John’s friends have since a few weeks – since the infamous incident of the Drink Spilled Over John’s Shirt – cottoned on Sherlock’s crush, smirking at him as soon as he set foot in the Honeybee before nudging John, winking at him and whispering in his ear how Sherlock was still looking at him.Again.In which Sherlock is watching (and pining), John desperately tries to remain in the closet and Mycroft is meddling.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Beware, readers, beware! If you're looking for a insta-love, smitten-at-first-look, hearts and flowers story... That's not it. As nice as canon first meeting is, I wanted to take a bit of a break from it, because life doesn't always turn out that way.  
> So, if you're in the mood for a bittersweet, slightly angsty story -with an happy end, though, I'm not that cruel! - here it is.

It is madness, Sherlock thought. He couldn’t take his eyes off the _Honeybee_ ’s front window though. He wasn’t looking at the shop sign – a cheerful little bee, which was smiling brightly at the passers-by, inviting them to enter the pub and taste Ross’ honey-based drinks and other concoctions.

Nor was he sneering (for once) at the over-the-top slogans already celebrating Valentine’s Day – “Be my honey…bee!” and other similar silliness.

No. What completely mesmerised him was the sight of John, drinking at the bar and laughing with his friends.

As he did every Friday night, after having attended his classes at Bart’s.

Sherlock swallowed hard.

His palms were clammy with sweat, but for once, he didn’t think of wiping them on his trousers. He ran them instead through his wild hair – a visit to the hairdresser was long overdue, but would John like him with short hair?

He chuckled humourlessly.

As if it would matter.

As if John would only bother considering him other than this weirdo who couldn’t stop watching him.

Sherlock sighed. He knew he has been completely obvious, that John’s friends have since a few weeks – since the infamous incident of the Drink Spilled Over John’s Shirt – cottoned on Sherlock’s crush, smirking at him as soon as he set foot in the Honeybee before nudging John, winking at him and whispering in his ear how Sherlock was still looking at him.

Again.

His cheeks were burning. Oh, if Mycroft could see him right now… Sherlock gritted his teeth.

His record wasn’t spotless – far from it, actually.

A lanky 27-year-old man, who has ditched uni in his first year and discovered drugs shortly afterwards.

It has taken him three years to leave for good the artificial paradises.  

Only to get a new addiction while he was still recovering from his last bout in rehab.

He should stop.

Right now.

A resolve he has made a thousand times, only to break it as soon as he caught sight of John’s fair head.

Truth was, nothing could keep him away from the object of his fascination – obsession, his mind answered.

He was in too deep, getting hooked since the first time he has seen him.

Sherlock looked down at the mobile in his hand. He knew that Mycroft’s increasing power was only one call away. One word from Sherlock and his big brother would take care of everything. Offering him a well-paid job, a decent flat, everything which was worth having in Mycroft’s eyes on a silver platter – Sherlock would have to pay the bill afterwards, of course, but it might be worth it only to get away from this place, this flat located just in front of the _Honeybee_.

Getting away from John and the temptation he represented.

No.

Not yet, at least.

One more time, he thought before slipping the mobile in his pocket and taking his coat off the hook. He took his keys, his wallet, closed the door behind him.

His face was already flushed, he could tell but it didn’t matter, after all.

John already knew. Everyone already knew.

One more time, Sherlock thought before crossing the street.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW - Homophobic behaviour and slurs.

“Your not-so-secret admirer is back, John…”

“He’s basically dripping with unrequited lust.”

“What a poor baby. If he wasn’t such a fag, I’d love to try to comfort him…”

Dave snorted in his drink, shaking his head at the blonde woman with the pixie cut, leaning up against the counter.

“You’re a tough bitch, darling…”

She winked at him.

“And you love it, honey!”

John turned his head away, looking down at his drink. As usual, the thought that his not-so-secret admirer was back and was probably already watching him, perched on one of the high stools near the front window as he was wont to do, filled him with a completely paradoxical mix of elation and annoyance.

Elation because, no matter who his secret admirer turned out to be – John took care never to look at him in the eye, he didn’t want to encourage him after all – it was always nice to be admired from afar and to find himself the focus of such attention.

Pity it came from a man, John thought.

And thus, came the annoyance, destroying any pity he might have felt for the poor bastard, because, really couldn’t he take a hint? How many times must John ignore him? For God’s sake, the man was really testing his patience – even more so when John had to remind himself not to give in and simply _look_ at the man.

He has nearly made this blunder, right after the first time Dave, Helen and the other members of his little group have noticed the man’s obvious ogling.

He was already looking up in his admirer’s direction when he remembered one of the few rules he has enforced for himself shortly after leaving home and coming here in London.

_Don’t watch them._

Oh, it was fine to glance at the men he found attractive. It only took a quick turn of his head, checking them out out of the corner of his eye. A flash of a round arse, strong pecs, bright smile. Useful glimpses fueling his fantasies when he was stroking one off in the shower.

You didn’t have to truly watch them, however, and John has many times congratulated himself on never getting caught in the act, never being so blatant as to attract catty remarks and knowing smiles from his friends.

“Hey, Johnny!”

Someone slapped him hard on his shoulder and John gritted his teeth, hiding his displeasure at this gesture behind a friendly grin – Paul, this bastard, didn’t really know his strength!

“Fancy seeing you here,” Paul went on, a teasing glint in his baby blue gaze. “You still haven’t decided to move out of this pub?”

“And depriving Mister Curls over there of his daily Johnny dose?” Helen replied, smirking at him. “Our Johnny is not so cruel!” she cried out, hugging John from behind before kissing him soundly on his cheek.

He knew this display was only for the benefit of Mister Curls – or whatever his name was – but it didn’t stop John from getting even more annoyed.

“I’m here, in case you’ve forgotten. And that’s quite enough on this subject, ta very much,” he said, a hint of steel in his voice.

Dave and Paul backed off, simple lads who were more interested in Ross’ beer than in Johnny’s love life (or lack of), but Helen wasn’t so easily deterred.

“Don’t you get your knickers in a twist!” she said with a pout. “Can’t you take a joke?”

_Can’t you take a joke?_

The same sentence the pupils of St Clare’s school used to say to Harry after she went running to the teacher, complaining about the pranks played on her.

Leaving Johnny behind, when he was forced to hear the others’ derisive comments and laughs.

_Can’t she take a joke?_

_Honestly, you’d think a dyke like her wouldn’t whine about all the time!_

_Such a crybaby…_

They sneered, they taunted and mocked, never stopping before Harry finally snapped, running away from home. She came back after two days, promising never to do it again, but it was too late – Johnny saw it in her eyes.

Harry would never stop running.

And he couldn’t do this, couldn’t be like her, he was safe, he loved girls as well!

 _There’s such a thing as bisexuality, you know_ , Harry’s voice echoed in his mind.

He shook his head. The last thing he needed at this moment was his sister’s words.

He has left all this behind him the day he got the admission letter.

He was safe here. Studying medicine, making sure his dream came true, getting a tight little group of mates. They weren’t the nicest of the lot, but John didn’t really care. What mattered was he never got to drink alone like some loser.

He would never be the one others sneered at or pointed out with their forefingers.

He was safe here.

“Oh, Johnny, I think you might have some competition!” Helen cried out, gripping his arm.

He looked at her with a puzzled expression.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

Helen shot him a wolfish smile.

“Mister Curls over there. He got some company.”

John ignored the slight lurch of his heart and shrugged.

“Good for him, then. Don’t see why it mattered.”

Helen raised an eyebrow, his gaze turning speculating in a way John wasn’t fond of. Before he could react however, she gripped his chin with her talons and turned his head.

“Really, Johnny? Because, you know, you’ve never truly looked at him…”

 It was way too late to try to look away.

John wasn’t ready to meet the gaze of Mister Curls. He truly didn’t want to.

But fate has decided otherwise.

That’s how he found himself looking right into the eyes of the man who has never stopped watching him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Mycroft is meddling (and there's still angst!)

As Sherlock entered the _Honeybee_ , he became instantly aware of the gazes turned in his direction. He didn’t dare looking at the little group he knew was at the counter – not yet, anyway. He waved at Ross, wiping off a glass behind the bar and who always got a friendly smile for him.

“Hey, kiddo!”

Coming from a man who was way shorter than Sherlock, it was quite ironic to be called like this. However, Sherlock didn’t remark on it. He would rather die than admit it, but Ross, with his weathered face and kind gaze, reminded him a bit of his own father.

At least before he has run away from home with his latest mistress.

“Ross,” he replied, already feeling the weight of attention on him. An attention which was far from being benevolent. He fell on his usual stool, taking care not to be facing the counter where John and his friends were. He has spent endless moments speculating on the best place from which to observe him, finally opting for a seat allowing him an indirect line of sight. If he turned his head a bit on the right, leaning down, he could get very interesting glimpses of John.

Thank God – at least if Sherlock still believed in him – Ross wasn’t keen on modifying the _Honeybee_ ’s inner layout.  

He absentmindedly ordered his usual – tall coffee, home blend.

“You’re sure you’re not ready to try something else?” Ross asked. “A little spoon of honey can go a long way in sweetening your daily life!”

It was a well-rehearsed argument between them – Ross trying to convince to try something new while Sherlock persisted in holding in to his habits.

“And getting an addiction to sugar in the process?” Sherlock drily commented. “Thanks but no thanks!”

“There are worse addictions than others…”

For one heart-wrenching moment, Sherlock thought the _Honeybee_ ’s owner was referring to his past use of drugs – and how could he know that?? – but when he looked up, he saw Ross glancing quite obviously in John’s direction. He felt himself flushing and he instinctively snapped:

“No one’s business but my own.”

Ross didn’t take offence at his tone.

“You’re right, kiddo and usually I wouldn’t have said anything. (He stroked the back of his neck awkwardly.) But I’m afraid it’s getting quite… a lot for you.”

There was such sincerity in his gaze Sherlock found himself stripped of all his defences. He lowered his head, peering at his hands trembling on the _Honeybee_ ’s menu.

“It’s the last time,” he softly replied and felt his cheeks burning even further. He didn’t dare looking at Ross and to his horror, his vision turned blurry. He heard Ross sighing before a hand fell on his shoulder, making him jump.

“This one is on me, kiddo.”

And before Sherlock could even protest, he was gone.

* * *

 

He was slowly relaxing, sipping at his coffee, trying to make it last. If it was the last time he was here, that he was able to see John, he intended to enjoy the opportunity to its fullest. He regularly glanced at him, doing his best to ignore his friends’ knowing looks and sneering remarks.

“… _dripping with unrequited lust_.”

“… _And depriving Mister Curls over there of his daily Johnny dose?”_

Mister Curls. That was still nice. Sherlock has been called worse, that’s for sure. He smiled to himself while glancing outside. At this hour, night has already fallen and passers-by were but mere shadows, fleetingly going past the _Honeybee_. He entertained himself for a while trying to discern a sign, a clue which would reveal enough about their owners and he would deduce the rest. But it was getting too dark and thanks to the lights around the Honeybee’s bar, it was simply too tempting to glance at John’s reflection in the window.

What was it about him which captivated him so?

Of course, Sherlock was no innocent, despite what Mycroft still believed. He knew the power of seduction, has used it a few times before, when he was still courting Death with a single push of syringe. It has led him to some sticky ends that Sherlock still couldn’t remember without a flush of shame spreading across his cheeks.

But with John, it was more than the simple appeal of flesh. As soon as Sherlock has set eyes on him, he has been trying to puzzle out the delicious and captivating enigma the medicine student represented. A man blending so successfully among others, laughing and talking with them and no one could see what Sherlock has glimpsed right from the start – the hidden face.

The power under these frankly hideous jumpers.

The hurting memories he could read in John’s silence, when everyone around him was making a fool of himself.

The undeniable fact that he was way more than what he was pretending to be.

And Sherlock couldn’t get enough.

Yes, he was infatuated, yes, he had a crush, yes, he has been obvious.

But how could he not when the object of his curiosity revealed himself to be so fascinating?

* * *

 

“Good evening, brother mine.”

Sherlock spluttered in his drink, nearly choking on his last gulp of coffee. Mycroft observed him in silence, letting out a slight sigh before perching himself on a nearby stool.

“Did I by chance catch you unawares? If that is the case, it’ll be an occasion to remember. I don’t think it has happened since you celebrated your seventh birthday…”

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock growled as soon as he got his breath back. Before Mycroft could answer, he cut him off “No, in fact, I don’t want to know. Go away!”

“Gladly,” Mycroft whispered, looking around him with a faint air of distaste. “But first, I have to talk to you.”

“I don’t want to hear you! Go away, Mycroft!”

“No. You’ll hear me first. Don’t worry, it shouldn’t take long. You’ll still have time to make eyes at your little student if you want. Not that you seem very successful with him.”

Thoroughly humiliated, Sherlock fought the impulse to bury his face in his hands. He met instead Mycroft’s faintly amused gaze and spat out every word.

“Go. Away.”

“Mummy is worried about you. So am I to be quite frank. I’ve let you alone long enough.”

“Oh please. As if you didn’t keep an eye on me all the time!”

“With very good reason, brother mine,” Mycroft calmly replied but Sherlock was no fool, he could look past the carefully composed façade.

Mycroft didn’t trust him. He didn’t consider Sherlock strong enough to stay clean. A belief which incensed him and undermined him at the same time. True, he hasn’t been the model child his mother hoped he will be, but everyone made mistakes, after all.

There was no need for Mycroft to rub Sherlock’s nose in it.

“We believe, Mummy and I, that it’s high time you make himself useful.”

“I don’t want one of your lackey jobs, Mycroft! Go away, now.”

“Lower you voice, I won’t have you making a scene. Especially not in this setting…”

Sherlock felt an impish glee as he noticed Mycroft’s cheekbones getting pink. It wasn’t so easy to fluster his big brother. That’s certainly why he was making it a point of honour to attempt it every time he had the misfortune to come across him.

“Why? Is that not posh enough for you?” he asked in a drawling tone.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

“If you want to slum it, brother mine, that’s your choice. (He leant in, to Sherlock’s obvious disgust.) You know you can do better. Much better. These people… They will never see you for what you are, Sherlock. They’re simple minds, they don’t have an ambitious bone in their body.”

Mycroft’s blue-grey gaze seemed to bore right through him.

“What are you trying to do here, Sherlock? What are you waiting for? That Chance will drop everything your heart desires in your lap, including your little student?”

“Don’t talk about him!”

There was now a hint of pity in Mycroft’s expression and Sherlock has to look away.

“Tell me just one thing – has he looked at you just one time? Has he dared to meet your gaze? Has he given any sign at all that your attention was welcome?”

Sherlock closed his eyes, cursing himself for betraying such weakness in front of his brother.

“I hate you,” he said through gritted teeth.

Mycroft shrugged.

“A price I’m willing to pay if it brings you at the end some happiness.”

“I don’t need you to be happy!”

He realized – too late – that he has shouted, effectively “making a scene” as Mycroft would have said. Every head turned in his direction. Every gaze peering at him, asking what was wrong with him.

All of this faded from his sight however when, turning his head, forgetting his usual caution, he met John’s gaze.

Time stops.

Sherlock remained frozen on the spot, staring open-mouthed at the other man.

Noticing the woman’s hand on him.

Noticing how blue his eyes were – one more thing to know about him.

Noticing how John looked at him, startled, before coming to his senses and wrenching his eyes away.

Mycroft’s voice echoed once again in Sherlock’s mind.

_Has he looked at you just one time? Has he dared to meet your gaze? Has he given any sign at all that your attention was welcome?_

He lowered his head as a single word – “No” – was dancing before his eyes.

“Sherlock…”

“Leave me alone!”

And he ran out of the pub.


	4. Chapter 4

When Sherlock stormed out of the _Honeybee_ , John was still leaning on the counter. Reeling from the shock induced by this unexpected visual contact.

Gosh.

Those eyes.

Of course, the man was handsome – John would dare to say “attractive” – and if he had been free to jump into bed with him, he would have done so in a heartbeat.

But that wasn’t the problem (okay, just a small part of it).

What has shocked him to the core was what he has just _seen_ in those clear eyes (Were they blue? Green? Something else?).

Something completely mad, something which he believed only happened in those chick movies. You know it’s expected, This obligatory moment where the heroine looks at the man of her dreams in the eye, both of them remaining lost in the gaze of each other, and you just know they’re going to end up all lovey-dovey.

Never mind that it was far from what happened most of the time in real life.

John has never believed in it – so why has it happened just now??

And especially with a man – even if this one cut a striking figure.

He knew that no one wanted to see a love story, as beautiful as it might be, between two men, whether on the screen or in reality. Homosexual relationships were secret stories, cloaked in fleeting shadows. They were not talking about love and affection, but base lust and physical relief – hands, cocks, lips, arses. It was nothing else than that, John was convinced of it.

Then why was it so difficult to forget what he has just seen – no, strike that, what he has _believed_ he has seen – in Mister Curls’ gaze?

_Because he sees you as you are._

_Because you’re not as alone as you might think._

_And if that’s true, why then are you still hiding your true self?_

John shook his head. No. No. He couldn’t believe. This way lay madness and everlasting shame. He didn’t want to end up like Harry, did he?

“John? Mate, you all right?”

Paul’s worried face suddenly appeared on his left and John forced a smile.

“Of course! Never been better!”

“That’s our Johnny!” Helen cheered, her bright red talons grazing the sleeve of his jumper in a gesture which made him suddenly shudder with repulsion. “He’s a good friend of us and because of that, he’s going to buy the next round!”

His first instinct was to balk at offering them – his wallet was already wailing with despair – but John found himself smiling at that.

“Okay, you bastards, I got them… but don’t get used to it!”

His feet were already carrying him to the other side of the bar. He desperately needed a break, he needed to think about what has happened and…

He abruptly stopped when he discovered Ross planted in front of the posh man, who has sat before next to Mister Curls. Judging from the tension emanating from both of them, they weren’t having a friendly chat.

“I appreciate your concern, Mister…”

“Ross O’Neill. I’m the _Honeybee_ ’s owner.”

“Nice establishment,” Poshy retorted, who obviously didn’t believe a word of it. “But that’s a private affair between me and my little brother.”

So, Mister Curls was this man’s sibling. John suddenly felt a stab of pity for the poor bastard. Growing up in this man’s shadow has surely not been a piece of cake.

“Now, if you would excuse me, I have other pressing matters to attend…”

Poshy was already walking past Ross, obviously considering the matter settled once and for all, when the owner suddenly put his big, rough-looking hand on the handle of the umbrella the other was carrying with him. John nearly laughed when he saw Poshy’s absolutely dismayed look at what he surely considered as an unforgivable crime.

“I’m sure you’re a very busy man,” Ross said, his smile never reaching his eyes, “Mister I-still-don’t-know-your-name…”

“Holmes,” Poshy blurted out before biting his lower lip, annoyance gleaming in his eyes, as if Ross has somehow tricked him out of it. However, he quickly recovered his composure and he stood up straight, towering over Ross. “Mycroft Holmes.”

“Very well, Mister Holmes. As I was saying, I’m sure you’re a very busy man, so I’ll be brief. This pub is my territory and I don’t allow anyone to harass my clients, whether they’re family or not.”

John heard Mycroft’s sharp intake of breath but his voice remained level as he replied

“A very commendable initiative. However, I fail to see why you’re telling me this.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’re clever enough to solve this riddle,” Ross replied in kind. His gaze suddenly hardened. “And your brother is way more than a mere customer for me. He has helped me when I was in a terrible mess, storming his way in one day and revealing to me how my former bastard of business partner was embezzling the _Honeybee’s_ receipts. The best part is that I didn’t get a chance of telling him one word before he started babbling about Everett!”

John observed during a few seconds a fond smile creasing Mycroft’s lips before it was stamped out again.

“Sherlock has always been keen on solving mysteries, especially when they are not his concern,” he whispered.

Sherlock.

Sherlock Holmes.

Why has his heartbeat suddenly quickened when hearing this name? John wondered. His name didn’t matter, he told himself. His cleverness, his looks, his willingness to help others in time of need… John shook his head minutely, closing his eyes, refusing to acknowledge how these facts were branding on his memory.

He couldn’t – shouldn’t – care about it.

_Don’t watch them._

_Don’t treat them like they count._

_Remember their smiles, their ass, their pecs. Remember all this when you wank. But don’t get yourself involved. They don’t matter._

Feeling a bit stronger in his resolve, John opened his eyes again. He has obviously missed the rest of the discussion between Poshy and Ross, since both men were parting on a reluctant nod before Mycroft walked out of the _Honeybee_. John examined him for a few moments before walking to the bar, behind which Ross was once more standing. He glanced up at John, his smile not being as friendly as usual.

“I imagine you’re buying the next round?”

John nodded, not trusting his voice. He fidgeted, looking around without seeing anything, while Ross poured out the cheap beer. It wasn’t yet rush hour at the pub and apart from some regular customers minding their own business or watching the telly, he was quite alone at the bar.

It was a perfect opportunity to open his mouth and ask the owner, who obviously knew some things about Sherlock, if…

_No!_

He found out his hands were balled into fists at his sides, as if he could physically punch his goddamned curiosity. A voice looking furiously like Harry’s suddenly echoed in his head.

 _What’s the problem, Johnny?_ she asked him, her words dripping with irony. _Afraid of what would happen if you dared opening your gob, hum? God forbid you ruin your nice little illusion of being straight!_

“Piss off!” he mumbled under his breath.

A loud clink made him look up – Ross was putting the full glasses on a tray, shooting him a puzzled look in the process. John felt his cheeks burning with embarrassment.

“All right, Johnny?”

“Yeah…”

And before he could stop himself – Harry’s voice started laughing in his head – he heard himself uttering “Listen…”

“Yeah?”

“This man… The one you were talking about before…”

_He has a name, you know – Sherlock._

A full flush was creeping across his face and John couldn’t meet Ross’ gaze as he awkwardly stammered out

“I… I would like to know…”

Oh god. He was a complete mess. He glanced up hopelessly at the bartender who was remaining silent, an eyebrow raised. His expression was stern, but not totally devoid of sympathy. He finally sighed.

“If I had known I’d end up playing the therapists today…,” he muttered before clearing his throat. “Tell me, young man, since when did you and your friends start going to my pub?”

“I’d say two months, more or less.”

“And since when did you all start noticing the man you’re speaking of?”

The flush which has slightly abated came back in full force. John licked his lips nervously before whispering

“Four weeks.”

“Don’t you think that during all this time, you had ample opportunity to simply go and talk to him, hum?” Ross mercilessly went on. “It wasn’t as if he was never looking at you…”

John opened his mouth several times but couldn’t find the right words – those which would convey to the bartender why such an idea was completely laughable, without speaking of being impossible. His heart was pounding in his chest, he was completely ridiculous. It would have been better if he hadn’t spoken at all.

“Forget it,” he muttered.

He was already lifting the laden tray when Ross interjected.

“I’m not finished.”

At this moment, John would have given everything to be able to flee and never come back to the _Honeybee_ , but for an unknown reason his body didn’t obey. He stared at the owner, his heart in his throat. Ross peered at him for a while before asking

“I guess you’re not out, then.”

His first impulse was to protest, to say it has been a mistake, that of course he wasn’t out because there was no need for him to be. However, something deep down didn’t allow him to lie.

“You don’t know how it is,” he rasped out, which was as good as admitting it.

“Very true, Johnny. However, if you’d allow me to give you a piece of my mind…” He leaned in, making sure not to be overheard. “Before you go looking out for this kid… sort yourself out, okay? I’d hate to see both of you getting hurt.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to volley back something hurtful, something insulting at this man who was judging him without knowing him, lashing out at him in anger and fear. But the words got stuck in his throat and all he could say was

“You’re not going to tell them?”

It was so humiliating, he thought, so exhausting, waiting for this man’s answer, depending on him not to say anything.

 _You’re a coward, Johnny,_ Harry whispered in his mind.

“Telling them what?” Ross replied.

He turned his head in the direction of Johnny’s friends, who have remained mercifully oblivious of his extended absence, before glancing back at him.

“You know, if someone doesn’t accept you as you are… You’re not obliged to stay with him.”

John mumbled “Thanks” before ducking his head and avoiding the all too perceiving eyes of the bartender.


	5. Chapter 5

Since he has celebrated his seventh birthday, heartily blowing his cake’s candles while pretending to roll his eyes at his Mum’s antics, Sherlock has taken pride in never letting any tear run down his cheek.

No matter how sad, how desperate even he has been.

He could still hear Mycroft’s voice in his ear, _Never show any weakness, Sherlock, for people would always take advantage of it._

A promise he has broken tonight.

At least he has waited until he has been alone in the small flat, where a damp smell always seemed to permeate through the walls, to allow himself to crumble under the pressure weighting on his shoulders, falling to his bony knees and crying his heart out.

He should have been ashamed, letting it all go like that, bawling like a kid on the not quite clean floor, but Sherlock soon found out that, on the heels of the waves of misery and grief crashing into him, pain radiating in his whole body, came a gradual relief.

As the last sobs tore out from his chest, as the humiliating memories of what has happened today at _the Honeybee_ lost, piece by piece, their power to harm him, Sherlock closed his eyes as much needed peace washed over him.

Numbness cast its spell on him, shielding him from any new attack his mind could plan, and a relieved sigh slipped through Sherlock’s parted lips. He remained like this, lying still on the floor as if he didn’t have strength any more, as if his whole being has been beaten black and blue, for hours, until night has truly fallen.

He dimly perceived the surrounding noises – doors of the nearby flats closing and opening, snatches of conversations, cars honking and people crying out in the streets – but for once, they didn’t manage to disturb him. For once his mind was at peace, deep waters shining under the sun, shyly peeking through clouds. He knew it wouldn’t stay like this, that his relentless curiosity and the overwhelming need to _do_ something will come again exercising their power and holding the reins, but at this moment, he was enjoying the quiet.

It was only when he started shivering in his thin shirt that he thought of getting up. He did so slowly, massaging his cramped leg and holding on to the bed frame. He walked to the window, looking through at the _Honeybee,_ golden lights shining in the winter night.

He looked at the clients’ happy faces, how they were laughing together, speaking to each other, how their gazes shone with joy and excitement.

John and his friends weren’t here anymore, Sherlock knew it. He simply observed these strangers, feeling more and more disconnected from them. A wall seemed to have been built between him and any other form of life, and it didn’t matter how much Sherlock was reaching out, trying to fit somehow in this crowd, trying to find a place where he could belong, he remained alone. Being kept isolated from this life, this canvas which obstinately rejected his advances.

And yet something, a conviction deeply rooted in his very soul, refused to give up.

Taking up the gauntlet every time it was thrown into his face.

It was more than just survival instinct – it was a voice whispering to him _You have a role to play._

He turned away from _the Honeybee_ ’s sight, padding along to the tiny bathroom. The crude light made him blink and he cringed with embarrassment from his reflection in the mirror.

His pallid skin was still flushed red from grief, his eyes red-rimmed. His hair looked greasy and unkempt.

_No wonder John has never talked to you, heh?_

_No!_

He shook his head, trying to dislodge the self-destructive thought.

_Look up, Sherlock. Look at yourself._

He glanced once more at his reflection.

_Who are you, Sherlock Holmes?_

A good question, he mused. Who was he, really? A few answers popped in his mind.

A former drug addict.

A precocious child.

Someone who was trying to find his own way, doing his best to ignore the social conventions, turning a deaf ear whenever Mummy or Mycroft started harping on about children, job, partners.

In his heart, he was Peter Pan, refusing to bend the knee to the grown-up world.

He was looking for something else.

_What are you looking for, Sherlock?_ his reflection seemed to ask him.

During a fleeting moment, the image of John – golden-haired, blue-eyed, lovely John – danced before his eyes, but it soon faded, replaced with dreams he has long kept jealously for himself, for fear someone – like Mycroft, for instance – would find out and deride them.

He was looking for a thrilling life, full of mysteries to be solved, a life where his cleverness and his quick-fire deductions would be more than tolerated – they would be encouraged.

An existence where he could develop his skills to their full extent, where he could be looked upon with surprise and a bit of awe.

_Well, then. What are you waiting for?_

He clenched the edge of the washbasin in his hands.

What was he waiting for, indeed?

Mycroft, for all his bluntness, was right – for once.

_“What are you trying to do here, Sherlock? What are you waiting for? That Chance will drop everything your heart desires in your lap, including your little student?”_

He had to change.

He had to let _the Honeybee_ and everything it has once represented in Sherlock’s eyes – promise of love and friendship – behind him. It has turned out to be nothing else than a dream, after all.

He had to think of himself. Focus on his own ambitions.

He’ll never find what he was looking for here.

Sherlock swallowed hard, watching the rising grief in his eyes.

But this time, he wouldn’t give in.

He had to go forward.

And he would do it in his own fashion, he resolved.

 

* * *

 

February’s grey, cold dawn found him on the pavement in front of _the Honeybee_. Sherlock hadn’t slept a jot but he wasn’t tired. Quite the reverse, in fact – he was feeling determined and fortified after his last night’s decision. He looked one last time at the silent pub before pulling out a small, white envelope out of his pocket. Ross’ name was written on the front – somehow, Sherlock couldn’t bear the thought of disappearing again without telling _The Honeybee_ ’s owner beforehand. He bent down, slipped the envelope under the door.

He got up, pulled back a little before turning and walking away.

A new life was waiting for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry though - his departure might seem permanent, but I promise it isn't :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The one where this AU is definitely flirting with canon.  
> Have a lovely weekend!

Two months.

More than two months, actually, since it was now April 15th and he has last seen Sherlock just before Valentine’s Day. Not that John was counting of course and…

Who was he kidding? Of course, he has been counting! Keeping a mental tally of the days since Mister Curls has been missing from _the_ _Honeybee_ , quickly checking as soon as he entered the pub to see if he wasn’t seating in his usual place…

No such luck, yet. It seemed that John has definitely lost his not so secret admirer. And this loss was starting to bother him immensely.

He stared at his pint of mead – Ross’ brand new product, as advertised on the chalk board. “A fresh intriguing taste to celebrate the spring!”, the bartender has added. John wasn’t really in the mood to drink to the weather warming up again, but he hasn’t protested when Ross has offered. _The Honeybee’s_ owner was his jovial self, chatting and laughing with his clients, pouring drinks and watching over the clients seated at tables. It was a busy Friday afternoon, voices ringing with the joy caused by the incoming weekend. Everybody seemed to look forward to something – meeting with friends, attending concerts, having a lie-in at Sunday.

_What are you looking forward to, John?_

Million pounds question, that one. He absentmindedly drew invisible circles with the tip of his left forefinger on the wooden counter. Two months and Sherlock’s clear gaze still haunted him. Creeping into his mind when John least expected it, dancing in front of his gaze when he was revising for his exams and – worst of all – imposing itself whenever John was being chatted up at Bart’s, a silent, all too clear reminder that he has business unfinished with Mister Curls. It drove him to distraction, leaving him silent and lost in thoughts even when he was with his friends, attracting their attention “What’s up, Johnny?” “Don’t tell me you’re brooding again!”

“You’re no fun, Johnny boy!” Helen has exclaimed yesterday, her nails mussing his hair.

And _that_ was truly alarming, because if he lost his friends, where would he be? If he failed to keep their company, if he found himself once again as the loner, the one who was dismissed, excluded from all the get-togethers at St Clare’s, the one who never received any invitation to a birthday party.

The one whose sister was, you know…

_You don’t want to be that boy, again, do you?_

No, of course.

_You have to make efforts, Johnny. Bring back your old self, my boy! Keep your friends entertained – smile, laugh and joke. Razzle dazzle them, as the song says!_

And on the heels of that voice came another one, softer and sterner at the same time.

_You be a good boy, Johnny. A good child. A good son. Someone I can rely upon._

He gritted his teeth. His old man was miles away but the words he has spoken immediately after Harry has finally come out to his parents still echoed in John’s mind.

He remembered everything which happened that day.

How Harry has made him pinky sworn to come out at the same time as her, a serious look spreading across her face – “Once again, Johnny. Promise me you’ll tell them right after me!”

How he has whined about it, not realizing how important it was for his sister – “Seriously, Harry, we went through it a thousand times! Give me a break!”

How Harry has held his hand tight in hers, silently asking for his support, for him to come forward and to say “Me too” as she was stuttering along in front of their parents, their stares focused on both of them.

How, when Harry finally stopped speaking, the silence engulfed them, shivers running down Johnny’s spine. It was his turn, his opportunity, he shouldn’t let Harry down, Harry who was watching him, her dark gaze begging him to tell them, tell them and…

“You have something to say as well, Johnny?” his father has asked in a mild voice.

He panicked. Fear got its claws into him, and before he could think about it, he found himself shaking his head.

“Good. Come on then, let’s eat while it’s still hot.”

He hasn’t believed his ears. Until this moment he hasn’t known that silence could be so cruel. So cold. He hasn’t known that parents, people who were supposed to support their children no matter who they loved, could act in such a way, sweeping Harry’s words under the rug, issuing such a curt dismissal that his sister remained frozen on the spot, anguish shining in her gaze before she abruptly turned on her heel and fled.

John could still hear the door slamming behind her.

A sharp sound echoing in his heart, as he mourned his stillborn hope of being able to acknowledge his true self, of leaving the closet.

That night, his father joined him in his room, seating on his bed and staring at John for such a long time the teenager he was then got convinced his father somehow knew what he has failed to do alongside Harry.

He has nearly jumped when his old man has put his hand on his shoulder – a gesture John has always considered as warm support but has suddenly seemed to be a stifling weight at that moment.

“You’ll be my good boy, won’t you, Johnny? The one I can rely upon…”

He should have said something.

He shouldn’t have ignored this casual exclusion of Harry, as if from that moment on, their parents only had one child.

He should have chosen that time to release himself from the overwhelming, crushing responsibility his parents have placed on him – “You be a good boy, Johnny” – refusing to fit into the straight and narrow mould they’ve chosen for him.

He should have chosen Harry.

Should have supported her, as she has asked him to.

But he didn’t.

* * *

 

“You want another one?”

Ross’ cheerful voice startled him, making him jump on his seat. The bartender raised his bushy eyebrows before clicking his tongue.

“Sorry, didn’t realize you were miles away! (He pointed John’s empty glass out.) Just wanted to know if you were up for another round…”

John shook his head.

“No thanks… Wait!”

He has instinctively reached out, holding Ross back by his sleeve, drawing a bemused glace from the bartender.

“All right, son?”

Son.

A single word which made him look up at this man, his heart constricting painfully in his chest. He licked his lips.

He could hear over and over again the door slamming in his mind, a sound as sharp as gunfire, his relationship with his sister the only victim of this attack, their bond killed right on the spot.

But it didn’t mean that he couldn’t open another door.

“Listen, I know you’re not going to tell me what happened to him or where he is now but…”

“He? Who are you talking about?”

“Sherlock.”

It shouldn’t have felt so good to finally pronounce his name out loud.

John felt himself blushing.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he repeated just because he could. Nobody was listening to him, after all.

“I just want to know if…he’s doing all right. Please.”

His father’s voice faded from his mind. John knew though it was only a temporary respite, that it will come back, but right now he felt no shame. Only freedom.

And the burning desire to know.

Ross let out a loud sigh.

“What makes you think I know the answer, huh?”

“But you know it, right?” John insisted.

The bartender rolled his eyes, grumbling under his breath – “not playing Cupid, honestly!” – before glancing back at John.

“I told you to sort yourself out, kiddo…”

“I’m getting there,” John cut him off, desperate to obtain an answer. “I promise! I just…”

“Oh, do stop with the puppy eyes!” Ross mutters, checking at a glance that nobody around the bar needed him. He started giving the counter an unnecessary wipe. John didn’t dare moving a muscle, hanging on Ross’ words.

“Last I’ve heard,” the bartender finally whispered, “the kid was doing fine on his own.”

Relief washed over John so strongly he was almost surprised by this intensity – has he never realized how worried he has been over Sherlock?

“He called you?” he asked, heart in his throat.

“Nah, he prefers to text,” Ross replied, smiling a little.

John refused to acknowledge the jealousy strongly burning in his heart. He had no right to feel this way, he told himself. Not when he has been such a coward.

“That’s… good. Fine. I’m…happy for him,” he blurted out, his daring deflating now that he knew Mister Curls was “doing fine on his own”.

Good for him.

Really.

John would sleep better now and maybe with a bit of luck, he would even forget the memory of Sherlock’s gaze meeting his.

Yeah, right.

“I should… go. Thanks for…”

“No problem,” Ross answered. “Good luck for revising. And you know, if you need to take a break, you can always check his website.”

“His website?”

Ross winked at him.

“Sherlock’s website.”

* * *

 

He has barely set foot in his cramped little flat that John was already opening his laptop, addressing a fervent prayer to whatever deity was keen on listening to him right now.

“Come on, come on, don’t let me down…” he whispered.

He must look like a madman, talking to himself, heart already racing furiously in his chest but he didn’t care. His computer was apparently in a good mood today and a little while after John found himself typing “Sherlock Holmes” in the Google bar with trembling fingers.

“The science of deduction” appeared among the first results.

Heartbeat definitely hitting the roof, a flush spreading across his face, John started clicking through the website.

“A consulting detective – the only one in the world,” the extremely short bio announced.

A bold statement which made John smile, before he became lost in an extremely detailed analysis of the various brands of tobacco ash.

He gave up midway, his mind buzzing with such obscure terms he was quite sure half his teachers at St Bart’s would have been lost as well.

_Who_ was this man, exactly?

As he scrolled down, the “Contact” link suddenly popped up off the page and he hastened to click on it… only to become mesmerized by the photo appearing on the screen.

John licked his lips.

Goodness.

What a fool he has been.

To think that he has been so terribly afraid he has only listened to the voice in his head “Don’t watch them, they don’t matter” while such a man has been staring at him all along…

He closed his eyes, doing his best to shut up the flow of self-recrimination inside his head.

Now was not the time.

If he wanted to see Sherlock again, he had to find a way to contact him.

His heart gave a lurch when he glimpsed at the bottom of the page a phone number. A mobile phone number.

“He prefers to text,” Ross has said. It was quite obvious right now.

Suddenly, the space intended for the Twitter feed, apparently linked to Sherlock’s account, which has remained still yet, came to life, attracting John’s attention.

Some kind of online newspaper – LeekNews, such a horrible pun, honestly – has tweeted about New Scotland Yard’s announcement, tagging Sherlock in the process. John peered at it closely.

“Breaking news – #CopperKiller arrested! Our reporter awaiting @NewScotlandYard official report. According to some sources, help of @ContactSH has been invaluable.”

John stared at the headline before pulling out his mobile of his pocket.

His hand remained steady as he typed first his message followed by the phone number mentioned on Sherlock’s website.

He didn’t even hesitate when it was time to click “Send”.

It was time to open a new door and to see what was behind.


	7. Chapter 7

“I didn’t need your help!”

Sherlock gritted his teeth, barely refraining from pointing out – in an extremely acerbic voice – how this statement hasn’t turned out to be true. Lestrade, always the peacemaker, shot him a glance, no doubt begging him mentally to shut up for once, before turning to his colleague.

“Sally…”

“Oh, fuck off, Greg!” Sally answered, glaring daggers first at the other sergeant, then at Sherlock. “I know you’re the Freak’s number one fan…”

“Hey!”

“…but there’s no need for you to always intercede on his behalf, okay?”

Lestrade didn’t get the opportunity to reply. With a final venomous look, Sally removed her bulletproof vest before turning on her heel and striding away to join the rest of the team, gathered around the van where the “Copper Killer” was currently locked in.

Lestrade let out a weary sigh, running a nervous hand in his already greying hair. Sherlock could already guess what the sergeant would say and so decided to spare him this effort.

“Save it, Lestrade. Sally is at least right for one thing – you don’t need to play peacemaker between me and your colleagues.”

“Would actually be nicer if you all weren’t always at one another’s throats!” Lestrade retorted. “You know, closing such a case is the perfect opportunity to celebrate at the nearest pub…”

“Invite your team, then. They deserve it and they’ll enjoy much more than me.”

“Sherlock…”

The rest of the sentence got lost as Sherlock, without so much as a goodbye, started to walk off in the other direction.

 

* * *

 

He didn’t know where his footsteps were leading him until he found himself setting foot in Regent’s Park. The familiar sight elicited from him the shadow of a smile and he quickened his pace, ignoring the handful of insistent looks his Belstaff – or was it something on his face? He could never find for sure – seemed to draw. The park has become his new lair immediately after he has moved in Baker Street. Thank God he has remembered Mrs Hudson’s address after moving so suddenly out of his former flat. The unexpected bonus was, besides Mrs Hudson’s clear joy at being able to mother him as far as Sherlock was willing to allow it, the fact that Mycroft didn’t find out until three days after Sherlock has moved out.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Was it so hard to dial my number and let me know where you were?”

“I wanted to test your CCTV network’s efficiency, brother mine,” Sherlock drawled. “And let me say that I found it severely lacking.”

He has rung off, satisfied that he has at least managed to rile Mycroft.

He took a deep breath, closing his eyes and letting the events of these last weeks flashing in his mind.

Truth was, he has done fine.

New flat, new job.

New life.

No new addiction of any kind on the horizon.

Wasn’t it a stellar record?

He has even set up a brand-new website, for God’s sake, establishing himself as “consulting detective”, taking over boldly this title while proving he was worth it on the field.

The Copper Killer case – such a ridiculous nickname, really! – was but the first of his many successes. Sherlock could almost taste on his tongue, hear the echo of his flourishing future in the wind whistling in his ear and tousling his hair.

He was proud of what he has achieved in two months’ time.

So, what if he hasn’t made new friends?

What if half the team at NSY barely seemed to tolerate his presence, even with Lestrade’s help?

He shrugged. It didn’t really matter, did it?

As long as he didn’t let their resentment affect him in any way, Sherlock knew he would be fine. He has learned his lesson, after all.

Sentiments were chemical defects.

Or, at the most, useful weapons to understand what motivated perfectly ordinary people to kill, lie, cheat and do other such disagreeable things.

Sally’ angry face danced before his eyes. In a sense, he could understand why she was so angry with him. No doubt she has done her very best at police academy, having to work twice as hard as the others simply because she was a Black woman. Sherlock didn’t need to read her file to deduce she has painstakingly climbed the career ladder, step by step, until she finally landed her dream job.

And then, him, a perfect stranger without any experience on the field, came and dazzled everyone with his never-ending flow of deductions, bringing mercilessly to light NSY finest’s flaws. And he did so without having to attend any training in criminology, behavioural science or whatever was required to be hired by NSY.

It would seem terribly unfair to anyone in Sally’s situation.

Sherlock gave a little sigh.

Yes, he could understand. It didn’t mean that he wouldn’t take the golden opportunity which was offered to him simply because he might hurt the pride of others in the process. Oh no, he would take his due and enjoy it to the fullest.

Let them call him freak or any adjective their average minds might come up with.

If the price to pay for what he has always wanted was loneliness and even rejection by Sally and others, it was okay, Sherlock mused. He could bear it.

During a fleeting moment, John’s blue gaze came to mind but Sherlock relentlessly crushed this memory until it crumbled into ashes.

It was all fine, he thought.

He could take it.

 

* * *

 

It was only later, when he laid sprawled on his sofa, amusing himself with the news headlines about the Copper Killer – he was even mentioned in some of them! He should send them to Mycroft – that he discovered he has one unread text on his mobile.

Frowning – why hasn’t he noticed his mobile buzzing? – he tapped the icon.

And remained frozen as the text appeared on the screen.

 

_Congratulations, Sherlock. Ross told me you were doing fine and I could see that’s the case. Let me know if you would be willing to celebrate it over a drink at the Honeybee._

_Someone who dearly missed your presence._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm away for a few days so... I'll try updating as fast as I can when I'm back!


	8. Chapter 8

_You’re lying. SH_

Heart jumping in his chest, John stared at the text which has appeared five minutes ago on his mobile screen. In the few hours after he has sent the text to Sherlock, desperately waiting for an answer while trying to convince himself that of course he wasn’t looking every minute at his phone, he has managed to convince himself that his text has come across as way too cheeky to deserve an answer.

Or too creepy.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t good, as Sherlock’s answer confirmed it.

_You’re lying._

He looked up at his flat’s ceiling, as if, by some kind of miracle, some divine inspiration could come to him.

What the fuck might he say to this?

That for once he hasn’t lied?

That he was just a coward, not even brave enough to sign his text?

He groaned.

He should give up right now. Delete his text and Sherlock’s answer. Trying once more to forget this man and that was just the crux of the problem because in the two months since Mister Curls has left the Honeybee, John hasn’t succeeded in getting him out of his head.

Besides, his stubborn streak wouldn’t leave it alone, demanding that he replied.

He laboriously typed, cursing his clumsy fingers when he had to go back to erase some typo.

_I’m no liar. Why don’t you come at the Honeybee tonight at 8 p.m? Would be proof enough I think !_

 

He has barely let out a sigh of relief that his phone buzzed again. Naturally, Mister Curls was a fast typer – it would just be John’s luck!

 

_No one would have ever missed my absence at the Honeybee. So, if you were trying to get a good laugh out of this, don’t bother. SH_

And before John could react, another text appeared on the screen.

 

_Don’t try to contact me again, I’m going to block your number. SH._

Adrenaline surged when he read these words and John didn’t think while typing as fast as he could

_Please, don’t! I genuinely want to see you again._

 

_I don’t even know who you are. SH._

 

Time to bite the bullet.

 

_I’m John. John Watson._

 

His heart was pounding in his chest as he stared at the text he has just sent.

Good lord, what has he done?

Has he really revealed his identity to the person he has constantly snubbed until now? Has Sherlock already blocked his number? How would he react if he hasn’t?

John tried to picture him as he received this text, but to no avail.

_Please answer. Please!_

A knock at the front door startled him. For a brief, completely crazy moment, the thought that Sherlock was here, waiting for him invaded his mind but his hopes were dashed when a voice arose on the other side.

“John? Are you here?”

A very familiar voice that he hasn’t heard for a very long time.

He remained rooted to the spot before rushing to the door.

Harry glanced at him, surprise in her blue eyes. Then, a shadow of a smile bloomed on her lips.

“Hello, brother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a short chapter, folks, I hope next week will be much quieter so I can sneak in some writing time :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING FOLKS!
> 
> The one time I decided not to hit "preview" when posting a new chapter was the time Ao3 decided to only give you one half of the chapter... My apologies for this mistake, that I've just noticed! So Chapter 8 has been updated as it should be and to make up for this, here's another (short again!) chapter.

Sherlock stared dumbly at the words appearing on the screen.

 

_I’m John. John Watson._

 

John who has declared “having missed dearly his presence”. John who has apparently done a research about him, since he has found his number. John, who wanted to see him again.

 

Sherlock clenched so hard the phone in his hand his knuckles turned white.

A joke. A nasty, wretched joke.

He could already imagine Helene, Dave and the others laughing their heads off while sending him a text.

No, wait, his mind screamed at him. Think about it for a minute – that’s not logical! Why would they wait so long before getting in touch with him?

 

Then the answer popped into his mind – of course, one of them must have seen his name appearing in the headlines on Twitter or somewhere else. They’ve been reminded of Sherlock, the poor love-stricken dummy, and with the help of a few drinks, they’ve decided it would the highlight of their Friday night if they could play him for a fool.

 

Anger surged up within him.

The first impulse was to block the number as he already threatened to do so, but before he could put it into practice, another idea came to him.

 

A deliciously devilish idea.

 

So, they wanted to see him? Very well. They would see him indeed – but on his own turf.

 

Acting rashly was not really his strong suit but in this case, Sherlock found he couldn’t resist. He replied to “John”

 

_Meet me at XXL at 8. Don’t be late. SH._

 

He dropped the phone on the sofa before rushing to the bathroom.

 

His hand didn’t tremble as he opened one of his kits and surveyed his contents. Oh yes. It would do very nicely indeed!

Sherlock felt a wolfish grin creeping up on his lips.

They won’t know what hit them!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back again - at last! Sorry for the long hiatus, folks! Hope you're still enjoying this story :)

_Harry glanced at him, surprise in her blue eyes. Then, a shadow of a smile bloomed on her lips._

_“Hello, brother.”_

John remained frozen on the spot, staring wide-eyed at his sister – the one person he would never have expected to appear one day on his flat’s threshold. His disbelieving surprise coloured his voice, turning it into a gruff growl as he asked

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

Harry’s smile disappeared immediately. Before John could mourn his absence however, she bit back

“I see your manners haven’t improved. Or is that special treatment only intended for me?”

He was surprised to find out that her voice, even as sarcastic as it might reveal itself to be, filled him with a quiet joy. Like he was still a child, following blindly in his big sister’s footsteps, ready to believe anything she might say to him.

An absolute trust which has been broken the day he has failed her.

John let out a weary sigh before pulling back a little.

“Sorry I… You took me by surprise.”

“Yeah, that’s quite obvious,” Harry said with a snort, letting herself in and examining the flat. John closed the door behind him, at a loss for words. Why was Harry here, exactly? They didn’t get in touch regularly, to say the least. He felt his hackles getting up at the thought that she might have come here to see for herself where he was living, how well exactly he was faring in the great city of London. Scrutinizing him with her clear, piercing eyes and unveiling everything which was lacking in his life.

He quickly glanced at her and startled when Harry’s gaze met his. Eyes of a lighter blue than his, looking at him in an inscrutable way.

He felt sweat beading on his brow suddenly. Why was she… observing him like this? Could she tell that… ?

_No, don’t be stupid!_

But the horrifying idea that somehow Harry was able to read on his face everything he has been up to these last weeks – including, especially, the text he has just sent to Sherlock – remained in his mind, floating around like a particularly threatening jellyfish.

Could she tell? Has her supposed gaydar pinged suddenly in John’s presence, warning her that her coward of a little brother, after having repeatedly ignored Sherlock’s gaze on him, has finally decided to get in touch with him?

Texting a man.

Proposing a date.

Because he couldn’t – wouldn’t – snub him any longer.

“You all right?” Harry suddenly asked, raising one eyebrow in concern. And this gesture was so familiar, reminding him of all the times Harry has been there for him, watching over him, lending a sympathetic ear to all his pre-teen troubles, that he could have wept right now.

He smothered this impulse somehow, licking his lips instead and looking away.

“Yeah,” he replied in an overly cheery voice. “Yeah, of course. I’m...” he repeated before the idea struck him. “Hang on a sec. How did you know my address?”

He saw Harry’s shrug out of the corner of his eye.

“I asked Mum.”

“You spoke to her?” he asked without thinking, his question echoing in the silent flat. He immediately winced right afterwards, cursing his impulsiveness. Harry must have seen it on his face because she gave a dry chuckle.

“Yeah, I spoke to her occasionally. Nothing too intimate or serious, mind you. Just superficial chitchat – how are you and Dad, how is it going at your job, is your boss still the same old bastard… That kind of things.”

One corner of her mouth quirked up and John tensed.

“Don’t worry, baby bro, you’re still their favourite child. Their _only_ child, as far as Dad is concerned.”

“Harry… I don’t want to fight, okay?”

“I’m sure you don’t, Johnny. That’s not your way, isn’t it? You much prefer opting for what is easiest,” she volleyed back with ease.

The coward’s choice, that’s what she was saying. Anger surged through him, fuelled by his inability to refute her accusation. He clenched his fists. Harry glanced briefly down at his hands – a look of fear flashed across her face. An expression that John wasn’t expecting to find on her sister’s features and which left him totally puzzled. Nausea rolled in his gut when he realized that Harry must have seen the same reaction over and over in people standing in front of her; Noticing her, her laugh, her haircut, the way she spoke, anything really which told them that she wasn’t one of them.

Harry didn’t belong – she never has.

And she didn’t want to.

Attracting raised eyebrows, distrustful glances, hurtful words.

Or clenched fists.

If not worse, John thought.

His anger disappeared, leaving only in its wake an intense weariness.

“Why did you come here?” he broke the uncomfortable silence between them. “Was it just to try to get back at me or…?”

“Seriously?” Harry cut him off with a chortle. “Are you even listening to yourself, Johnny? We’re not ten anymore. Believe it or not, “trying to get back at you” as you said is not on my list of priorities!”

She bit her lower lip, betraying her nervousness, before going on.

“In fact, if you want to know, I’m moving to London. Liz and me…”

“Liz? Is she…?”

“Yeah. My girlfriend.”

She didn’t even bother restraining herself from smiling goofily at this and John felt a prickle of jealousy faced with his sister’s obvious happiness.

“We’ve found a nice single-room flat not far from here and since I was around, I thought “Hey, why not coming round and seeing my little bro?” and here I am!”

“Oh,” John let out, not sure at all how he felt with all this. On one side, he was glad that Harry seemed to settle down, having obviously found someone who made her happy. On the other side… The thought that he could come across her in the street, whether alone or with his friends, left him reeling.

And furious against himself at the same time.

He has grown up, for fuck’s sake, he wasn’t the same cowardly silent teen he has been when Harry and him were still living together under their parent’s roof! Why should he care about people like Helen, Dave or anyone else really thought about Harry? Hasn’t he decided to get out of this fucking closet and accepting what he was? Hasn’t he texted Sherlock earlier, practically begging him to agree to a date with him?

A pat on his shoulder brought him back to reality.

“Don’t worry, bro,” Harry told him, eyes glinting with fake amusement, “I can perfectly pretend I don’t know you if we ever met in the local Tesco.”

It was the straw which broke through the last of his defences. Before he could think about it, he heard himself growling

“Fuck off, Harry.”

It was met with a brittle laugh.

“Oh please, Johnny. We both know what you were thinking.”

This time, he was truly infuriated.

“Shut up, you know nothing!” he screamed, his voice rebounding off the walls of his tiny flat. “You don’t know what it’s like, having to watch yourself, keeping silent, afraid you’re going…”

Harry, who has pulled back a little in surprise, cut him off with a mocking snort.

“Oh yeah, your life is so hard!” she cried out in a high voice before dropping it. “Try walking in my shoes, don’t you, and see how it is before you come crying your heart out, hum? Try being out, not hiding where you are or the sex of your partner, and hearing a flat’s owner hanging up on you. Try walking with your girlfriend, wanting to take her hand in yours and not doing it because you’re afraid it’s not safe!”

Harry was also screaming, pointing an accusing finger at him.

“Try coming out to your parents, waiting for them to acknowledge you and never having this fucking chance!”

She suddenly stopped, staring at him with hard eyes, cheeks still flushed.

“See, that’s the difference between you and me. You would never experience all this because you’re much too afraid to try. You prefer hiding what you are, even to yourself. And that’s fine, but don’t expect me to let you cry on my shoulder when you feel like it.”

“You got this so wrong…” he muttered, hands clenched.

“Oh yeah? Which part, then?”

“I’m not afraid to try!” he lobbed back furiously. “I’m trying right now and it’s fucking hard! I have never felt so vulnerable in my whole life, as if I was walking around naked in the middle of a crowd and it’s crazy, completely fucking crazy, especially with what happened after you came out, I should never have done it, but he made me feel…”

He abruptly stopped, painfully aware of what he has just said. He blanched, not daring to meet Harry’s gaze.

_Idiot, idiot, you stupid asshole!_

Even cursing against his own stupidity didn’t distract him from the overwhelming silence spreading around him.

After an unbearably long time, Harry cleared her throat.

“He made you feel…” she repeated but John could sense the question behind it.

He swallowed hard.

“Like it’s worth it,” he whispered. “Everything you’ve just said… all worth it.”

He dared peeking at her and smothered a laugh just in time – Harry looked completely poleaxed, as if someone has pulled the rug out from under her feet.

She blinked and made a visible effort to collect herself.

“For fuck’s sake, Johnny… what happened?”

To his great surprise and relief, he found himself telling her everything, from their first “meeting” at the Honeybee to the text he has sent earlier.

“He hasn’t replied, then?” Harry asked, still gazing at him as if she has never seen him before.

“Of course, I’m sure! Look!”

He padded over to the coffee table, where he has left his mobile, and was on the verge of handing it over when he noticed the “Unread message” flashing on the screen. His heart jumped in his chest.

“Gosh…”

“What?” Harry asked before joining him and looking over his shoulder.

“So, he _has_ replied!” she said in a smug voice.

John didn’t bother replying. Instead he tapped with trembling fingers on the message still blinking before him.

_Meet me at XXL at 8. Don’t be late. SH._

He glanced up at the clock and swore when he discovered it was nearly half eight.

“Got yourself a date, then!” Harry cackled before starting to laugh out loud when she glimpsed his face.

“That’s not funny!” he protested before he felt himself laughing in turn.

It was completely absurd and crazy, he should have been panicking instead of laughing his head off with the sister he has just seen again after years but it felt much too good to stop right now. It seemed to John that months of silence, years of agonizing over what he was, what he wanted were crumbling to dust just before his eyes.

When they finally stopped, faces red and tears in their eyes, chortling over the last traces of their mirth, John has never felt so light.

“So… What do I do, now?”

Harry smirked at him.

“Welcome to the queer side bro, we’ve got rainbow cookies! Get this fine ass of yours ready for your man, boy, he won’t know what hit him!”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... Yes, i'm still alive :) Took me quite a long time but here is the sequel :)   
>  Enjoy!

Sherlock danced like he has never done before. The music – a bit too electronic for his taste, but beggars can’t be choosers, after all – pulsed deep and low in the darkened room. Sweaty bodies were gyrating around each other. Except for him, of course. The first one to have tried the familiar grab-rub-on-you-with-a-cheeky-smile tactic with Sherlock has scampered off after he has grabbed him by the balls – and certainly _not_ in the way the man was looking for.

After this little stunt, others gave him a wide berth.

Exactly what he was hoping for.

It was a bit his fault, he considered, for having chosen this particular club. It was well known for being a little more “meat market” than Sherlock’s usual dens. On the other hand, he was quite fond of the music.

And the freedom it brought with him.

It was completely different than when he was playing his beloved violin. During his youth, he always considered music a harsh mistress – not one who tolerated his beginner’s mistake with a lenient smile.

He had to wait till he discovered the gay clubs to discover that this rule wasn’t set in stone.

Here, music was freedom.

It didn’t obey any rule, it offered freely and if someone was laughing at him for the way he was dancing, well, it was enough to close his eyes and let music flow through him.

At least till John’s so-called friends arrived here.

At this thought, he felt a surge of vindictive anger.

_Let them come. Let them see as I am._

He smirked when he imagined Mycroft’s aghast expression should his brother come across him right at this moment.

The tightest pants he could find, translucent shirt which was so thin one could see his nipples through it, half-open on sweaty pale skin.

Cherry on this particular cake – the kohl on his eyelids, mascara highlighting his clear gaze, without forgetting the glitter on his cheekbones… and a bit elsewhere, really.

He hasn’t pulled punches.

_And why should I have, after all?_

Here, he was himself.

Let them call him freak. Twink. Fairy.

Let them laugh off their stupid little heads.

It would be his turn to point them out and laugh afterwards.

Especially with hundreds of people like him around him.

Let them know the sharp tongue of the _XXL_ ’s clients.

_You’re on my territory. We should play by my rules, this time!_

As he let his body dance as the music dictated, Sherlock felt satisfaction flow through him.

He was prepared for every opportunity, he thought.

A certainty which was shattered as soon as his gaze met John’s across the room.


	12. Chapter 12

John stared, completely dumbfounded, at the vision which was dancing in front of him.

He has never believed in this kind of perfect, time-stopping moments like one saw only in cheesy romantic movies, when the hero finally spotted his one and only, crowd parting just in time for him to glimpse her, light shining on her lovely fair hair.

He has never believed it could happen to him either – and in the sultry atmosphere of a gay club to boot. He swallowed hard, completely unable to look away from Sherlock.

A Sherlock who was completely different from the pic he has seen on his website as day was from the night. The posh, reserved young man has completely disappeared, leaving in its stead a creature which was enchanting as it was imposing. Someone who seemed completely at ease here, dancing in an unrestrained way, like he was completely alone on the dancefloor. Someone who was also half-naked.

John suddenly felt out of place here, with his dark blue, ripped jeans and his tight T-shirt. Like a young kid trying to enter something which was only intended for grow-ups, an intruder on someone else’s territory. What has he thought? That he could blend in in this sophisticated, sensual crowd, which seemed so much more aware of who they were than he could ever hope to be?

It was a mistake.

He didn’t belong here.

Sherlock suddenly turned his head.

Their gazes met.

John gasped – a sound which was sure to be drowned in the low, pulsing music. However, he could have sworn Sherlock has heard it, considering how his pupils seemed to dilate. Sherlock opened his mouth and John took fright of what he could say.

He turned on his heel and ran away.

However, he has barely gone outside that he heard

“John! Wait!”

Even with his back on Sherlock, John didn’t doubt it was him.

A deep, velvety voice which seemed to have the power to stop him in his tracks.

“Wait.”

It was a whisper as enticing as the hand which softly grazed his. John looked up.

In the soft darkness, only disrupted by the lights from a nearby nightclub, Sherlock didn’t look inaccessible as before. In truth, John thought, he looked suddenly young and quite vulnerable. He watched him swallowing hard before saying “I wasn’t expecting you.”

John frowned.

“But… I texted you! You told me you’ll be here…”

“Yes but…”

Raised voices startled them both. A boisterous group, dressed to the nines, was quickly approaching.

“Come with me,” Sherlock whispered to John and he automatically obeyed, following him till a quieter alley. The London night atmosphere was growing around them, roaring with colour and life, but here, in this narrow path, where they could only see a sliver of sky above their heads, they seemed to have entered a quiet, peaceful bubble. Something intangible, which nevertheless managed to soothe John’s frayed nerves.

He glanced at his companion, who was already staring at him.

John felt his heart lurch in his chest.

How stupid has he been, to have ignored this handsome, clever man just for the sake of his own prejudices and fears! Now, as Sherlock was clearly taking his courage in both hands to speak to him, he could only hope it wasn’t too late for the shining, entrancing possibility his desire was painting just before his eyes.

 


	13. Chapter 13

"I thought... It wasn't you."

John frowned.

"Wasn't me?"

"Who sent that text," Sherlock softly said. 

He raised his head, looking directly at John.

"I thought it was one of those little games your friends loved to play with me. Like when we were both at the _Honeybee_ , you sitting at the bar, ignoring me while your _mates_ were whispering in your ear."

John felt his whole face heat up. Sherlock has only stated the truth in bare, neutral terms. He hasn't made a mock of John's behaviour nor has shown any anger towards him. His words pierced John's heart all the same, filling him with shame and guilt.

He swallowed hard, not daring to look away from Sherlock's gaze.

"I'm... I'm sorry."

How pathetic, he thought. How perfectly inadequate. He had to try again, to try better, he couldn't just say that and expect...

"Are you?"

The soft question took him unawares. Hesitancy was warring with hope in Sherlock's eyes.

"Yes. I'm sorry to have... ignored you all this time. I wasn't... I didn't..."

He cursed his inability to express himself. Of all times to find himself short of words!

John took a deep breath, his gaze locked with Sherlock's.

"Listen, I know I've been a coward. I acted like a dick, truly. I've ignored you, I've played with you and... I'm not proud of what I've done. Truth was... I didn't want to admit what I was. What I am."

Each word felt like a stone weighing on his tongue, lodged in his throat. They were ripping him from the inside, leaving him bare. Exposed. Vulnerable to this man watching him silently. Without judgement but also without any will to help him in his expression. 

Well, you only reap what you sow.

"I'm sorry," he softly repeated. "I... When you left the Honeybee for good, I realized that... I was missing you."

Heat bloomed again in his cheeks. He had to look like an overripe tomato at this point, but still John carried on.

"I... I couldn't let you go, after all. I... I don't want to."

Unable to bear any longer Sherlock's focus, John averted his gaze, looking down at the filth under his shoes. Gosh. What a place to come out and declare his feelings to this man! He suddenly felt angry with himself - he should have done more, should have taken him to dinner, in a posh, nice place, some restaurant with soft lights and hushed conversations. 

"Next time."

Startled by Sherlock's words, John glanced up at him.

"Sorry?" he asked, ignoring the quick _thud-thud_ in his chest.

Sherlock didn't manage to completely smother his smile. It was a thing of unexpected beauty, like the moon coming out from under the clouds and blessing them with its silvery light. John stared at him, completely enthralled.

"What you were thinking right now... I'd love that. When we'd meet again."

It took John several seconds to understand. When he finally did, he didn't even try to stop the big, goofy smile creasing his lips.

When.

Not if.

"Yeah?" he croaked.

It didn't matter. Sherlock's gaze was shining with a softness that John could only hope would appear more often when they'll be together.

_For me. Only for me._

"Yeah," Sherlock exhaled, his breath grazing gently John's cheek. He cleared his throat.

"I really hope you know nice places to go out.

"And by nice, you mean expensive?"

Sherlock let out a haughty sniff.

"I mean classy, John. Do your research."

"Oh, I will, Sherlock. I will."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter coming soon! :) Hope you've all enjoyed the ride so far :)


	14. Chapter 14

_Six months later_

 

"What are you thinking?"

John smiled - his little, mischievous smile who said better than any word that his thoughts were better left unsaid - at least in public. Sherlock smirked in return. At the same time, he couldn't help but feel trepidation and excitement. 

He'd barely have deserved the title of detective - or "21st centuy sleuth" as some papers have dubbed him - if he couldn't have perceived that John's thoughts were veering more and more frequently to the topics of carnality and intimacy as far as Sherlock was concerned.

Long ago, it would have been a cause of crippling anxiety and fear.

Not anymore.

Discreetly, so as not to alarm the estate agent who was currently telling their ears off with all the advantages of the brand new flat they were visiting - something Mycroft has insisted on since "they couldn't be left to live in the hovel you're both currently occupying" - he slipped his hand in John's. Squeezed it once. John glanced up at him, his gaze directly focused on Sherlock's.

"Soon," he whispered in his ear, enjoying very much the flush which immediately bloomed in his partner's cheeks.

His partner - in every sense of the word.

Friend, flatmate, faithful sidekick.

And soon-to-be lover.

"You're insufferable," John muttered under his breath, his whole expression denying these words.

Sherlock didn't reply, feigning to pay attention to the estate agent's enthusiastic speech while watching once again the cherished memories he has so carefully stored in his Mind Palace.

Six months today. He could barely believe it. 

Six months peppered with honest talks, discussions which turned out to be difficult and painful for both of them, but which revealed themselves completely necessary. They were building a home of their own, brick by brick. Foundations on which to build something solid and beautiful at the same time - a fact which still blew away Sherlock's mind. For so long he has considered himself as someone who cannot be loved, only to be appreciated for his deductions, for the help he could bring that seeing John stick to his side, even after months of companionship, was still unbelievable. Like the radiant sun shining through the flat's windows in the middle of January. He closed his eyes, contentment spreading across his chest.

He was lucky. So lucky.

Of course, it hasn't been easy. They both had to endure jeers and homophobic slurs. John lost his so-called friends and was bullied for a brief time at university until the authorities decided to listen to him and took his case seriously. Sherlock learned how to be civil to John's relatives - not always an easy task, considering what he has already deduced in their regard concerning how they've treated his partner before.

But it wasn't always like this.

They've also shared adventures, their laughter ringing in London's streets, full of excitement and sense of achievement.

Meals late at night in John's flat, looking at each other in the eye, both enjoying the unsaid and unresolved tension between them.

Kisses - Oh the kisses!

Sherlock couldn't believe something so small and so fleeting in appearance could reveal itself to be so important. So vital to his well-being.

And yet.

He has now a full memory of kisses - from the soft, tender ones on his forehead to the voracious, greedy embraces which make his heart pound furiously in his chest. Those moments where they were clinging to each other, hands desperately seeking bare skin, slipping under clothes... He shivered.

They still haven't done the deed, so to speak - but Sherlock wasn't overly concerned. At first itwasn't the right time and afterwards, when they grew more intimate with each other, it was a lack of opportunities rather than something missing between them.

And if he judged correctly from John's expression each time he was looking at him...

 _Soon_.

It might even be for tonight, if they decided to take this flat. On an impulse, Sherlock slipped his hand out of John's, let it brush against his wrist... before suddenly giving John's rather delicious bum a healthy grope. His heartbeat spiked and he couldn't smother a smirk at John's gasp.

Interrupting herself mid-speech, the estate agent looked at them both quizzically.

"Everything all right, gents?" she asked.

"Never better," Sherlock smoothly replied. "Please do go on!"

John didn't answer, his loaded gaze promising a swift retribution when they'll be alone. Sherlock winked at him.

He couldn't wait. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end, folks!  
> And with this final chapter, it's also the end of my foray into fanfiction writing. It has been a real blast and I can't thank you all enough for your support & interest in my works. The Johnlock and Mystrade communities really are wonderful!  
> Of course, I'll still be lurking on Ao3 - fangirl one day... - and leave comments here and now. At the moment, I'm busy rewriting my behemoth of a fic "Alphas & Omegas" in order to turn it into original fiction, so if you want to follow my adventures as a writer, you can do so here: https://cindyvwilder.wordpress.com/  
> Take care, you all <3


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